


The Phantom Ache of Cold Steel

by PhoenixFalls



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bloodplay, Knifeplay, M/M, POV Character of Color, PWP, Post-Nogitsune
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-11 02:53:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5611147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixFalls/pseuds/PhoenixFalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sometimes, after, Stiles smells wrong. Smells of excitement at times when before he only smelled of terror; smells of lust at times when before he only smelled of disgust. When Scott opens his Alpha eyes there’s a shadow, barely perceptible, lurking just over his shoulder.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Stiles’s eyes linger on the knife block in the kitchen.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Phantom Ache of Cold Steel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [boywonder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boywonder/gifts).



Sometimes, after, Stiles smells wrong. Smells of excitement at times when before he only smelled of terror; smells of lust at times when before he only smelled of disgust. When Scott opens his Alpha eyes there’s a shadow, barely perceptible, lurking just over his shoulder.

Stiles’s eyes linger on the knife block in the kitchen, and Scott feels the phantom ache of cold steel through his stomach.

Most of the time, Stiles is Stiles — muted, perhaps, by everything that’s happened since they snuck into the woods that night looking for a body, but still the sarcastic asshole Scott has loved most of his life. But sometimes Scott thinks there’s a lingering trace of the fox in him too.

It’s late, closer to four than two, and there’s a storm-driven wind off the ocean battering tree branches against Scott’s bedroom window. Stiles pocketed a scalpel when they took Scott’s mom dinner at the hospital around ten, and for the past hour he’s been twirling it between his fingers, watching it glint in the lamplight.

Scott listens to the meditative inhale and exhale of Stiles’s breath, the susurrus of Stiles’s blood in his veins, the light snick of Stiles’s nails on the metal as it flicks past. He has almost fallen asleep when the scent of iron wafts towards him.

Stiles has nicked himself. Bright red blood wells on his pale, pale skin, and he stares, fascinated. His eyes are deep in shadow.

Arousal is thick on the air, and with a start Scott realizes it isn’t coming from Stiles. _Scott_ is the one whose breathing has sped, who is painfully hard in his jeans.

Scott licks his lips, forces sound past a tongue that feels too thick. “Stiles.”

Stiles startles, stuffing the scalpel in his pocket and wiping his cut finger on his pants leg hurriedly.

“Yeah, buddy? You kicking me out?”

Stiles is avoiding Scott’s eyes. Scott can’t stand that.

He rolls up, reaching out to take Stiles’s hands in his. “Stiles.”

Stiles shoots him a glance, then drops his gaze again. Scott can tell when his eyes land on the scalpel poking out of his pocket because he grows utterly still. Trapped.

“You can cut me.”

“What?” Stiles pushes himself back, nearly tipping over the chair in his shock.

Now Scott has Stiles’s attention. He reaches forward to pull the scalpel from Stiles’s pocket, holds it up to catch the light again. “Cut me. I can take it.”

Stiles is mesmerized by the blade for a moment, then his face twists in one of the ugliest expressions Scott has ever seen him make, full of loathing and turned entirely inward. He stands hurriedly.

“It’s late. My dad’ll be off-shift soon, so I’m gonna go—“

“Stiles. Wait. Listen to me.” Scott stands as well, and he knows that Stiles has noticed his erection because Stiles begins to smell of arousal as well. Scott holds the scalpel out. “You can cut me. I want it.”

The shadows in the room are congregating at Stiles’s back, and his eyes glitter with interest. His lips are parted, the tip of his tongue just peeking out behind his teeth. Scott has all his attention now. He can feel his heart racing in his throat and in his dick.

“Cut me.”

Stiles’s glance flicks between the outstretched scalpel and Scott’s hard-on. He licks his lips, then blinks rapidly and shakes his head. “No. That’s crazy. I don’t want to hurt you. I’ve already hurt you enough.” He begins to back away, eyes averted.

He’s pulling in on himself again, crumpling in that way Scott hates, and Scott closes the distance between them, grabs Stiles by the wrists. He tilts his head to catch Stiles’s attention again.

“Stiles. You want to cut something. I want that something to be me. So cut me.”

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “Scott…”

“I want it, Stiles. And you… you need it. You need something. Let’s try this.”

Stiles heaves a breath, trembling just a little in Scott’s hands. His voice is barely more than a whisper. “Okay.”

And then he opens his eyes, meets Scott’s, and the darkness is there. It’s swallowed him up, warm whiskey eclipsed by jet black, and it _is_ Stiles still.

Stiles licks his lips. “Strip. And get on the bed.”

Scott obeys with alacrity, flopping down on his back on top of the covers, knees pulled up and slightly spread. Stiles’s eyes travel up and down his skin, and Scott can feel it like a touch, feels himself flush in response.

Stiles doesn’t disrobe, just saunters to the bed and pounces, pushing Scott’s knees down to straddle his thighs. He’s heavy, and his jeans are rough, and Scott can smell his own precome slicking the tip of his dick.

Then all his senses hone in on the metal Stiles is holding aloft, displaying.

“You really want this?”

It could be Stiles checking in — Scott thinks Stiles might be trying to check in, actually — but it comes out like a taunt, and Scott can’t help but whine in response.

“Yeah, yeah, c’mon—“

Stiles looms, one hand heavy on Scott’s shoulder, pressing him back into the bedspread. The scalpel is warm with Stiles’s body heat.

Stiles brings it down to rest the blade against Scott’s abdomen. Scott sucks it in instinctively, but even with his werewolf powers he can’t hold his breath for long. Eventually, he breathes, and the scalpel is sharp enough that even that little shift causes it to break the skin.

Scott doesn’t feel it, then Stiles pulls back, allows the blood to well up, and blows on it, and that — that stings. Scott has felt so much more pain than this before, but this pain is sharp, pulls at his attention.

Stiles places the blade against his skin again, and again Scott tries not to move, and again can’t prevent the cut. Then there’s a third, and a fourth and a fifth.

The first cut is already healed, as is the second, and the third is almost there. But the blood remains, washing Scott’s skin in red. Stiles puts the scalpel down to run his finger through it, from where it’s already tacky to the freshest, hottest blood still leaking through the skin.

He looks like he wants to devour Scott, eyes huge, mouth gaping. Scott whines again, thrusting up against Stiles’s ass.

“More, c’mon, told you I can take it—“

Stiles grins, and it’s the nogitsune’s grin, the nogitsune’s hunger still riding Stiles as Stiles picks up the scalpel again. This time he doesn’t tease. He slides it right into Scott, pulling the blade through skin and muscle like air. Scott can’t look away from Stiles’s face, and he tries to feel what Stiles is carving but he can’t, his abdomen is burning, the blade setting his nerve endings on fire. It loops, that’s all Scott can tell, and Stiles drags it out until Scott has to close his eyes, bite his lip against a howl, dig his fingers into the bedspread as his claws extend.

Stiles’s voice is barely recognizable, deep and throaty and pleased. “So pretty. But you always heal too fast. I’m going to have to do it again.”

And then he’s tracing the same path over, cutting even deeper, and Scott can’t hold back the change, feels his teeth lengthen into fangs and his eyes turn gold.

Stiles tosses the scalpel aside to grab Scott’s hair and pull him upright, lighting Scott up with pain again. “There’s my puppy. Look. Look what I did to you.”

There’s so much blood, and Scott has to blink away his tears, but it’s very clearly a stylized ’S,’ curled up like scrollwork. It’s Stiles’s mark carved into Scott’s flesh, all the weight of Stiles’s claim, and Scott feels his orgasm as a far away thing, barely noticeable over the rushing of blood, the heavy drum of their heartbeats.

When he comes back to himself Stiles has pulled out his own dick, has coated his hand in Scott’s blood, is stroking frantically, chasing his own orgasm. He moans as he comes, striping Scott’s wrecked and rust-colored stomach with his jizz. It burns in the bits of Stiles’s handiwork that haven’t already healed, and Scott shivers under it, whining softly to himself.

The dark mantle falls off Stiles immediately, and his expression turns horrified.

“Shit — Scott — I didn’t — fuck —“

Scott retracts his claws, gently untangling his hands from yet another wrecked bedspread, and uses one to pull Stiles down to his chest. To keep him from running away, keep him right where Scott can protect him.

“Fuck _yeah_ , Stiles. That was perfect.”


End file.
